20 years on, why many Kerala women continue to suffer despite law against domestic violence

01

On February 28, 2025, at 4.44 am, Shiny Kuriakose, 43, and her daughters, Aleena, 11, and Ivana, 10, walked hand-in-hand from their home in Parolikkal, Ettumanoor, Kerala, to the nearby railway tracks. CCTV footage captured Shiny gripping Ivana’s hand, her face resolute, as they reached the Parolikkal rail crossing.

At 5.15 am, the Kottayam-Nilambur Road Express struck them, ending their lives. Shiny, a BSc nursing graduate, had endured years of domestic violence from her husband, Noby Lukose, a Thodupuzha native working in Iraq’s Merchant Navy. Her family alleged relentless physical and mental abuse, with a domestic violence case filed against Noby on June 9, 2024, at Thodupuzha police station after he assaulted and evicted Shiny and the girls. That night, an intoxicated Noby called Shiny and flatly refused to grant her a divorce, pay child support, or repay the outstanding amount of ₹93,000 out of the ₹3 lakh Kudumbasree loan she had taken for his father’s medical treatment. “Why don’t you and the children die?” he reportedly said, as per her mother Moly’s statement to police. Overwhelmed by debt, unemployment, and despair, Shiny saw no escape. She left her rosary and jewellery under her pillow, a silent farewell, before leading her daughters to the tracks. Noby was arrested on March 5, 2025, for abetment t suicide, his bail denied. This tragedy exposes the devastating toll of domestic violence, where systemic failures and unrelenting abuse drove a mother to an unthinkable act.

02

On April 15, 2025, advocate Jismol Thomas, 34, a respected family lawyer and former president of Mutholy Grama Panchayat, walked with her children, Noah, 4, and Nora, 2, to the Meenachil River at Punnathura in Kottayam district of Kerala. At 1.30 pm, they jumped into the rushing waters, their bodies later found downstream. According to the police, she had made two earlier suicide attempts that same day—first by consuming poison and then by slashing her wrist. When both failed, she took her daughters to the river. Jismol, a local Congress leader, who once passionately argued against suicide in court while defending domestic violence victims, had faced relentless mental harassment from her husband, Jimmy, and in-laws, as alleged by her father, Thomas, and brother, Jitu. A wound on her head, dismissed as an accident, hinted at physical abuse. Two weeks later, following direct intervention by her family who approached the Chief Minister, the police arrested Jimmy and his father on charges of abetment of suicide and domestic violence.

The tragedy, eerily reminiscent of Shiny Kuriakose’s February 2025 suicide with her daughters on Ettumanoor’s railway tracks, stunned the community. Jismol’s scooter, abandoned near the river, and her silenced phone, allegedly taken by Jimmy, spoke of her final isolation. Despite her legal battles to protect families, Jismol’s despair mirrored Shiny’s, revealing the insidious grip of domestic violence that drove her to this devastating act.

“She was ambitious in her career, full of life, and someone who consistently fought to stay strong,” notes a preliminary report by a fact-finding team of lawyers, academics, and women’s rights activists. Given this, the team argues that there must be a compelling reason behind her suicide and calls for a thorough investigation.

“She had dreams of pursuing a PhD, had completed multiple certification courses, and was actively striving for success. She was also a successful practising lawyer. As a lawyer handling family court cases, Jis Mol reportedly viewed the exposure of her personal struggles as both a professional liability and a source of shame. Moreover, her first-hand knowledge of how inefficient the legal system can be in addressing such cases may have deepened her sense of despair and futility,” observed Dr. Arathi PM, director in-charge of school of Gender Studies, and assistant professor in school of Indian legal thoughts Mahatma Gandhi University, who was part of the fact-finding team and had personally known Jismol as a law student.

The same fact-finding team had also investigated the case of Shiny Noby and uncovered even more disturbing details, which prompted them to submit a set of recommendations to the government aimed at strengthening the implementation of the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act, 2005 to address systemic failures in protecting domestic violence survivors.

They call for national-level amendments to the PWDV Act to fix procedural delays and strengthen implementation, alongside mandatory gender-sensitisation for judiciary and police. State governments must improve enforcement and invest in better-equipped service centres. The team also urges the creation of community-based support systems beyond government frameworks. Importantly, they argue for a broader societal shift—questioning the pressure to marry and recognising coerced family life as a form of violence. They propose exploring a legally guaranteed right not to marry. The report concludes that these suicides stem not just from legal gaps but from deeper social and cultural failures, requiring collective and feminist interventions.

The PWDVA, enacted by Indian Parliament in 2005 and brought into force on October 26, 2006, marked a watershed moment in the country’s efforts to address domestic violence. For the first time, Indian law explicitly defined domestic violence in a comprehensive manner, encompassing not only physical abuse but also emotional, verbal, sexual, and economic abuse, as well as harassment through dowry demands.

This civil law, designed primarily to provide protection orders and immediate relief rather than criminal penalties, aimed to empower women by ensuring their right to a violence-free home. Over the past two decades, the Act has been a cornerstone of India’s legal framework to protect women, offering remedies such as protection orders, residence orders, monetary relief, custody orders, and compensation. Yet, as the Act marks its 20th anniversary, its impact remains a subject of intense debate, with significant variations in its implementation and efficacy across states, including Kerala, which has been a focal point for both progress and challenges.

Domestic violence in India has deep roots, intertwined with patriarchal norms, gender inequality, and socio-economic factors. Prior to 2005, women facing abuse had limited legal recourse. Section 498A of the Indian Penal Code, introduced in 1983, addressed cruelty by husbands and relatives but was primarily limited to criminal enforcement. Civil remedies, such as divorce or maintenance, were often inaccessible due to lengthy court proceedings, leaving victims vulnerable. The PWDVA emerged as a response to these gaps, influenced by global frameworks like the 1993 UN Declaration on the Elimination of Violence Against Women and the 1995 Beijing Platform for Action. The Act’s primary objective was to provide swift, accessible, and effective protection for women, recognising their constitutional rights to equality and dignity. It defined an “aggrieved person” as any woman in a domestic relationship—whether married, in a live-in partnership, or related by consanguinity or adoption—facing abuse from a male perpetrator or his relatives.

The PWDVA introduced innovative mechanisms to ensure accessibility. Protection Officers were appointed to assist women in filing complaints, navigating the legal system, and accessing services like legal aid, shelter homes, and medical facilities. Service providers, often NGOs, were recognised to coordinate support, while magistrates were mandated to hold hearings within three days of a complaint and dispose of cases within 60 days. The Act’s civil nature allowed for flexible relief, with criminal penalties (up to one year’s imprisonment and/or a fine of ₹20,000) applicable only for breaching protection orders. This structure aimed to prioritise immediate safety and empowerment over punitive measures.

“The most empowering aspect of the law is the provision for a protection order—it has truly transformed many women’s lives,” says Shamna Sherin, a family lawyer based in Malappuram. “Previously, women had to file a criminal complaint against their partners, which was a difficult and intimidating process. But under the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act, they can now directly seek a protection order, often granted ex parte. This order not only ensures immediate safety but also allows the woman to continue residing in her partner’s house or in a separate residence he is legally obliged to provide. If he wishes to contest it, he must approach the court to challenge the order.”

According to the National Family Health Survey (NFHS-5, 2019-21), 32% of ever-married women aged 15-49 reported experiencing physical, sexual, or emotional violence, underscoring the scale of the issue. The Act’s broad definition of domestic violence has enabled women to address abuses that were previously normalized, such as emotional or economic harm.

The PWDVA has also spurred institutional changes. The appointment of protection officers, establishment of shelter homes, and integration of legal aid services have created a support ecosystem, albeit unevenly implemented. The Act’s emphasis on coordination among stakeholders—courts, police, health services, and NGOs—has fostered a multi-sectoral approach to addressing domestic violence. Public awareness campaigns, supported by media and civil society, have gradually chipped away at the stigma of reporting abuse, encouraging more women to come forward.

“We need Prevention of DV service provider centres that actively help women to file complaints and fight legal battles. Currently, feminist NGOs find it difficult to register as service providers on the PWDV portal because of the Union government’s stringent credential requirements. Instead, many centres are now being run by religious organisations, which often attempt to discourage complaints and exhibit highly patriarchal attitudes,” says Arathi PM.

However, the Act’s implementation has faced significant hurdles. Underfunding and inadequate infrastructure have limited the availability of Protection Officers and shelter homes, particularly in rural areas. In many districts, a single Protection Officer handles hundreds of cases, leading to delays that undermine the Act’s promise of swift justice. Shelter homes often lack resources for comprehensive support, such as trauma counselling or economic assistance, leaving survivors with temporary relief but long-term uncertainty.

Societal stigma and fear of retaliation continue to deter reporting, with NFHS-5 data indicating that only 14% of women who experienced violence sought help. Critics also point to the Act’s civil nature as a limitation, arguing that it lacks the deterrent effect of criminal sanctions unless a protection order is violated.

“I’m a divorcee myself, and I’ve filed a domestic violence complaint against my ex-husband along with a custody application for my four-year-old daughter. It has definitely affected my career. I no longer take cases in the same court where my own case is being heard — I appear only in other courts. Naturally, my ex-husband’s defence strategy involves defaming and demeaning me, which will inevitably affect my clientele. The delay in domestic violence cases is also a serious concern. In my case, I filed the complaint in October 2024, and the first hearing was scheduled only for April 2025,” says advocate Shamna Sherin.

Another contentious issue is the perception of misuse. Men’s rights groups, such as the Save Indian Family Foundation, have claimed that the Act is prone to false complaints, a concern echoed by former President Pratibha Patil in 2010, who noted that 90% of dowry-related complaints might be false. While empirical evidence on misuse is limited, such narratives have fuelled resistance to the Act, complicating its enforcement. Additionally, the Act does not address marital rape unless the wife is under 15, a gap that has drawn criticism given the prevalence of sexual violence within marriages.

Kerala, often lauded for its high human development indices and progressive social policies, presents a unique lens through which to evaluate the PWDVA’s impact. The state has been proactive in implementing the Act, with the Social Justice Department spearheading initiatives since 2006. The appointment of legal counsellor at women support centres was a unique initiative by Keala government in 2006.

Kerala’s literacy rate (near 100%) and strong women’s networks have facilitated greater awareness of the PWDVA, leading to increased reporting of domestic violence. The state’s robust NGO ecosystem and legal aid services have empowered women to access courts, with cases often resolved within the mandated 60-day period. The Kerala High Court’s 2023 ruling affirming that women in live-in relationships can seek protection under the PWDVA further expanded the Act’s reach, aligning with the state’s progressive ethos.

Yet, challenges persist. Despite Kerala’s advancements, domestic violence remains a pressing issue, with women facing physical and psychological abuse from intimate partners and in-laws. NFHS-5 data suggests that 15% of women in Kerala have experienced spousal violence, lower than the national average but still significant. Rural areas face resource constraints, with shelter homes and Protection Officers often overstretched. The state’s matrilineal traditions, while empowering in some contexts, do not uniformly protect women, as patriarchal attitudes persist, particularly in dowry-related abuse. Underreporting remains a concern, driven by social pressures to preserve family reputation. Moreover, the lack of comprehensive rehabilitation programs—such as job training or long-term housing—limits survivors’ ability to achieve financial independence.

“I remember a case where a woman, unable to reach out openly, sent her complaint to me hidden in a tiffin box through her sister,” recalls advocate Athira PM, a seasoned lawyer and former public prosecutor based in Kozhikode, who had been a legal counsellor for a women’s centre during the initial years of the Act. “We eventually filed the case using her sister as the complainant, since the Act allows third-party complaints. This allowed us to intervene legally and send a protection officer to the house, where the woman was effectively being held in confinement.”

“The judiciary’s insensitivity is a big problem. Many courts don’t go beyond giving a basic protection order that just says ‘don’t commit violence’, even when we ask for things like monetary relief. Gender bias is also real,” says advocate Athira PM.

“In one case, I asked the court to stop a man—who had murdered the woman’s father—from entering her house. The judge mocked me and said, ‘Why don’t you just ask for his deportation from India?’ He even told the woman, ‘Your father is dead, now you want to throw your husband out too?’”

“When we raised this with the state government — it was the UDF in power then — they did respond, and some sensitisation workshops were held for judicial officers. But what came out of those sessions was deeply shocking. Around 64 per cent of the women judicial officers who took part saw nothing wrong with a husband beating his wife once in a while. They were still stuck in patriarchal mindsets and hadn’t even aligned themselves with the constitutional values they’re supposed to uphold as judicial officers,” adds Athira PM.

In Kerala, the Act’s implementation has been a model for other states, yet even there, gaps in resources and cultural barriers persist. Nationally, the Act’s success hinges on addressing systemic issues: increasing funding, expanding shelter and counselling services, and tackling underreporting through sustained awareness campaigns. The debate over misuse and the exclusion of marital rape from criminal provisions also calls for nuanced reforms that balance victim protection with fair enforcement.

The stories of survivors and the findings of fact-finding teams will illuminate whether the Act has lived up to its promise or fallen short, offering critical insights for the next chapter of this ongoing struggle.

“In the early years, there was a strong push for awareness around the Act, and a noticeable surge in cases being filed. But now, there’s a downward trend. The system’s insensitivity at various levels has gradually eroded the Act’s effectiveness,” says advocate Athira PM.

The Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act (PWDVA) has completed two decades, marking a significant milestone in India’s legal and social journey towards safeguarding women’s rights. In its initial years, the Act brought a surge of hope—cases were being filed, protection orders were granted swiftly, and awareness campaigns created momentum across the country. It provided a vital legal framework that allowed women to seek not just justice but dignity, security, and independence. However, over time, the law’s implementation has faltered. General insensitivity from law enforcement, delays in judicial proceedings, and deeply entrenched patriarchal mindsets within the judiciary and society at large have weakened its impact. Instead of evolving into a robust tool for justice, the Act now often suffers from institutional apathy and erosion of seriousness. Even after two decades, it is crucial to reflect on how the law has fallen short of transforming the family into a truly democratic institution based on equal partnership between spouses. The Act, while progressive in its intent, has not succeeded in reshaping the family structure to one that guarantees mutual respect, autonomy, and gender equality. One of the core reasons for this failure lies in the persistent judicial insensitivity that continues to uphold patriarchal norms rather than challenge them. This reflects a deeper institutional reluctance to question the authority of the traditional family model or to empower women to claim equal space within it.